I made the mistake

 asking someone else

 who I am.

Doesn’t matter

who he says.

Doesn’t matter

what she thinks.

I return now,

to myself,

my own true knowing

of who I am.

I am earth,

rich and dark.

I am sky

wide and blue

and water,

clear and running,

sometimes still

and dark deep.

I am air

hot sultry in summer

cold crisp in winter.

I am fire

a rising phoenix

a swirling flame.

I am passion

and fury ablaze.

I am knowledge

handed down

four centuries

and hewn from

Appalachian wood.

I am magic

of long gone years

and herbs gathered

for sick curing.

I am a song, falling

and rising like these hills.

I am a people of the folk

a tale to be told

a word-weaver

as simple as cane

bottom chairs

complex as daisies.